


Games

by TheImmortalKitty



Category: Kit's Wilderness - David Almond
Genre: Gen, M/M, hopefully its a similar style to the original, its still kinda cringe but, this is possibly the only thing i written that i like, which is what i was going for - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:35:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheImmortalKitty/pseuds/TheImmortalKitty





	Games

My name is Allie Keenan, and I used to play a game called Death. Me and Kit and that arse Askew. The ice queen, the storyteller and the artist.

Hidden away from the light. Down deep in the old coal mines we'd sit and chant and die. I had died, so had Dot and Bobby and all of the others. Askew's list of the dead wandered the walls. We were special, the descendants of the oldest families in Stonygate.

Kit was special. Kit was special as soon as he arrived. He came to play the game called Death. I liked to think of him as the angel, the pure one, among the black, black world of the devil.

We stopped playing a game called Death a long time ago.

Now we play at Life, with our mothers and fathers and school.

Kit and Askew, they play a game called Love. Slowly Kit is pulling Askew out of the darkness and showing him the wonders in everything.

They are experts at this game called Love. Without Kit Watson, John Askew wanders round aimlessly. When Askew is ill, Kit cannot stop worrying. It's almost comical the way he gets so wound up.

If you want to see the game called life you will find them down in the fields. The land between the mines and the village. This is as close to the mines as they can go. They lean against the fence, Kits head in Askew's lap contemplating the world.

We used to play a game called Death. Now we play a game called Life.

And they play a game called love.

 

***

 

Sometimes they would sit in silence. With only thoughts and simple touch.

Sometimes they would sit and the air would shimmer with words that seemed to reach out from another time. You would fancy you saw them, shining and floating, dancing amongst the soft sun rays or glinting in the raindrops on a window pane.

These were the words of Kit's stories.

Askew kept every one. He placed them in his drawings with delicate and urgent curve of his wrist, words gliding seamlessly into pictures.

He also placed them in his heart, the whispered ones of love and hope that barely made it to his ears. The ones hidden in polite conversation and empty silences. The ones said in fury and the ones said in peace. In gentle gestures he sought for the hidden words. The ones hidden for him to find.

But for now they sat in silence.

Kit's fingers, ink stained but smooth, tracked a spiral, curling round Askew's shoulder, tracing patterns on his skin lazily as they sat in the bright but cold morning. Askew simply leaned into his touch.

'What're you writing now kit? Eh!'

The words slip from his lips and the silence is broken. Sound floods in: the water rushing past, the children playing up by the houses. Some stopped and stared at the two boys sitting in the wasteland, the mine boys, who had gone into the darkness and come out again.

The children whisper of them. The adults mutter and the children whisper of how they went down into the mines like the miners of old. How they played a game called death. How John Askew and Kit Watson went to the land of the dead but came back to life. How they were found by the girl with the ice claws. John Askew and Kit Watson with ancient stones in his palm and ancient stories on his tounge.


End file.
